Gamma Glipheptin
by Marching Madly Onward
Summary: Let Orga Sabnak shatter your preconceptions and show you what it's like to be among the Alliance's living weapons, a Biological CPU. A dash of OrgaxNatarle [Oneshot]


**Gamma Glipheptin**

Have you tried the withdrawal? I highly recommend it. You don't really appreciate how much the human body can possibly hurt before you go through that crap. I thought I'd hit the limit when I spun out of control on my skateboard and busted my hand at fourteen. Yeah, I was kind of klutzy as a kid.

But you wouldn't know it by looking at me now, would you? Nah, not me, Mr. Big-Important-Pilot, the guy who fights for a pure, blue world free of the Coordinator menace where Naturals may live in peace with rivers of candy and unicorns and fluffy bunnies for ever and ever.

Well, that's what Douchebag McGee says. A lot of people call him "Azrael," which just has to be a fake name. But he says it's real. Then again, when I think about it, it makes a lot of sense. He's a self-righteous prick who goes around deciding who gets to live and who gets to die. Yup, that sounds like the Angel of Death.

You're surprised I knew that, right? I'm not as stupid as I look (even though I look damn good). I've blown more than a few minds with my extensive vocabulary and intimate knowledge of Shakespeare, Alighieri, Lovecraft, and all those other legendary wordsmiths.

But not Dickens. Screw Dickens. In the ear.

Seriously, have you read his stuff? His books are just one big run-on sentence. And don't even get me started on how much his stories depend on the idea of outlandish coincidence. I'm willing to give an author a little artistic license, but hot damn does it get old after the fifteenth "amazing" twist.

But I digress. The point is that I've shattered a lot of preconceptions people have about me. They meet me, knowing I'm an ex-con and the guy they pump full of a wonder drug to make their fancy mobile suits blow stuff to kingdom come and back. I'm supposed to be some shaking wreck who weighs ninety pounds, looking for his next government-sponsored score. They expect that or the muscle-bound, mentally deficient, tattooed lummox with a penchant for raping guys smaller than me. Sorry, but I'm not the type of guy who likes the pole. I plug the (decidedly feminine) hole.

I really thought this gig would rake in more pussy. (I really want to nail the Captain. But we'll get to her later.) Don't get me wrong; I've got it made in the shade. I get paid to sit around and read my favorite books, occasionally interrupted by a life-or-death struggle followed by a kind pain that's hard to describe. You know…nothing big.

Speaking of books, I've really been getting into these romance novels. I'd wager that's another illuminating fact to which you were ignorant. Don't worry about it. It takes most people a while to get over the shock of the punk turning out to be pretty damn smart.

In fact, I'm so smart, Mr. Douche bag decided to make me the leader of the _Dominion_'s mobile suit compliment. I'm being sarcastic. The job really pisses me off. Shani and Clotho can be so damned annoying.

Shani Andras might as well write the word "angst" on his forehead. He lies around all day, listening to his shitty emo music while he tries to sleep his life away. I'm not the most productive person in the world, but even I think that he's long overdue for some divine justice. (In case you missed it, I'm making a reference to the sin of Sloth.) I'm surprised he had the energy to rip up those jeans in a way that says "I'm a rebel!" At least, that's what he thinks it says. It really screams "Hey! Look at the dumbass who tore up a perfectly good pair of pants."

Then there's Clotho Bruer, the most juvenile teenager I've ever met in my life. That's saying something. He spends all day playing video games, all afternoon acting it out in the Raider, and all night having wet dreams about that game. As if one addiction wasn't bad enough…

To be fair, those two have more on their plate than most kids their age. Hell, so do I. All three of us would have spent the rest of our terribly short lives waiting for the day of the execution. But the Alliance took a look at our records and saw three young killers who could take the shit that gamma glipheptin put us through.

We were all killers before we had anything to do with the Alliance. But we had our reasons. Or so I like to think. We each have our own sob story about the injustice of society and stuff beyond our control.

Shani was some privileged, upper-middle class kid with parents more concerned about their standing in society than their kid. He dealt with his problems by ingesting every substance known to man. I wasn't surprised either. He certainly acts like your typical whiny teen who has (or should I say had?) it all. Anyway, raving was his favorite pastime, though. One night, he went to a rave thrown by a group he really didn't know. He got some bad Rush—they call it Rash down in Oceania—and wound up killing two guys.

He doesn't remember of it, but his lawyer told him it looked like the punks were trying to mug him and he flipped out. One guy wound up with his head through a window and the other got stuck like a pig when Shani picked up a shard of glass from the window the other guy's head had smashed. He argued diminished capacity, but those bastards threw the book at him.

He got buried and probably wouldn't have lived too much longer if the Alliance hadn't made him their pilot extraordinaire. Out of all of us, Shani had it the roughest on the inside. I think that's why he cuts loose on the battlefield like a psycho; he's trying to punish the guys that put him through so much pain when he's out there, carving things up in the Forbidden. I don't blame him for trying to kill himself. I don't think I could have lived with it either…

Jesus, that's morbid. Let's move on to Clotho.

He wound up in a foster home when his parents bit the big one after the S2 influenza outbreak. The vaccine had wiped the strain out, but people were still panicking and crime ran rampant. They died in a riot.

The system shuffled him in and out of homes. None of it really helped his outlook on life. So, it's not a surprise that he joined a gang to gain some self-worth. We've only talked about it once, but it seems like the gang was the only place he felt like he belonged. They were like brothers. It's not so crazy. I feel the same way now.

Don't read into that. It's not like I give a damn about those two or anything.

Moving along…he wound up killing four guys in a gang war before the cops nailed him. He had a semi-auto on him along with a few pints of someone else's blood. At least Shani, a suburbanite, could say it was the drugs. When a gang-banger from the streets wound up in the courtroom, there wasn't even a remote chance.

If you can't tell, I hate the legal system, criminal and civil.

Yeah, it has something to do with my own story. Don't rush me. I'm getting to it.

I don't really like talking about my past but I'm bearing my soul, so I'll have to do it some time.

I murdered my father.

I'm sure you're gasping with shock. You ask "but why, Orga?" I'll tell you why he deserved it (and trust me; he did). My father was a fucking pedophile. He molested my baby sister for years before I finally found out. I can't believe it took me that long.

I was sixteen at the time. I just got my license. So, it's only natural that I used the car to grind him into the asphalt. Vehicular homicide has a wonderful ring to it. It feels even better to commit. After that, I grabbed that bastard's rifle and shot my mom.

I'll give you some time to let that sink in.

She let it happen. She had known for years and didn't do anything. She said he was "sick." Yeah, he was, but not the way she thought. He had to die. My sister's seven kinds of fucked up thanks to us. Note the "us."

I realize that knowing your brother killed your parents in cold blood tends to traumatize. But the alternative was becoming another of dear old Dad's accomplices. I wasn't about to let that happen. Love makes you do crazy things. It made mom keep her mouth shut because she loved the father from hell and it made me kill the people who did so much for me because I loved my sister.

Aw, hell, I don't want your pity. I turned out alright. So did those two numb skulls. Sure, they've got their flaws, but who doesn't? Okay, so I'll admit we're a part of some genocidal crusade and that's never a good thing. To be fair, I'm part of the crusade, but I don't really care if it succeeds or not. I'm actually pulling for a loss. That way, I wouldn't have to deal with the glipheptin anymore.

I hate that stuff. Like I said, it's hard to describe, but if I absolutely had to put it into words, I would say it's like Satan pissing death into your veins. And that's just the withdrawal. When I'm actually on the stuff, I'm another person. I laugh like a hyena when I'm out there, killing Coordinators by the barrel and high as a kite. That stuff is Mr. Hyde in a bottle.

But I think I'd do it again, given the chance. This way, I might live to see twenty. This whole shebang also let me meet some pretty cool people. Sure, they piss me off, but Shani and Clotho grow on you (like a fungus).

Earlier, I mentioned the Captain, a hot piece of ass named Natarle Badgiruel. I used to think that all the military chicks were full-on, flannel-wearing dykes. I was wrong. She's a ten on any given the day of the week. But she's no lightweight. I've seen her get worked up in the heat of battle, but she's never really lost her cool, not that I've seen. Most people would have turned to jelly if they were in her position, but not her. She's a strong woman.

And that's hot as hell. There's more to me than "boobies!" Natarle has all the right curves in all the rights places, but there's so much more to her. She's pretty by-the-book, but she's not an automaton. She doesn't let anyone pull any shit on her ship, not even Douchey Mc Douchems.

I remember the time she put him in his place. We were still coming down and he wanted us to launch again. Of course, we were in no shape to pilot, not that he cared. That was when she stepped in. He got dressed down in front of the entire bridge crew. I wasn't actually there to see it (oh, what I would have given to have been there), but I heard the stories. Now, the more cynical side of me said she was just covering her own ass by keeping us alive so we could keep her alive.

A few hours later, when she came by my room to make sure I was doing alright, I knew better. She even held me when I cried. She really cared. I'd like to say it was all the withdrawal that made me sob 'til the cows came home, but I'll admit that at least some of it was knowing that she cared.

She's got it all. She's beautiful, brave, smart as a whip, curvaceous, and compassionate. I've never given much thought to marriage, but spending the rest of my life with Natarle wouldn't be so bad.

Then there are the kids. I want to bawl like a baby every time I think about them. Clotho, Shani, and I have been playing dog-on-a-leash for a few months now. But the Alliance has owned them since they were infants. It just crushes the soul to know stuff like that is going on. The three of us signed on the dotted line when we had the chance. Those kids are someone's God damn property.

Auel is Clotho's self-appointed little brother. They both act like they're six, and it couldn't make them happier. Ironically, Auel seems to be influencing Clotho, not the other way around. Auel loves pranks and is teaching Clotho the finer points of practical jokes. My shorts smelled like garbage for weeks. Don't ask.

I've seen him do things that defy the laws of physics. It's so freakish to see a kid that young doing things most humans—Coordinator or otherwise—couldn't do. He should be worrying about getting a driver's license at his age.

Stella, the bouncing ball of blond energy, seems to be taken with Shani. I think it's hilarious. He's the most lethargic member of our little fraternity yet his counterpart is the hyperactive dingbat. She's beyond adorable, but she's weird even for a teenage super soldier. He'll never say it, but I'm sure that Shani welcomes the change of pace. The fact that he let her listen to his headphones—his most prized possession—is more proof than I'll ever need. He's so used to doom and gloom. A little bit of sunshine will do him some good.

But no good deed goes unpunished. A few weeks after we first met the kids, some dick in the Alliance military sexually assaulted Stella. He figured that the pods they sleep in would wipe her memory of the event and he would get off. It sounds horribly inhumane, but it's not too farfetched. Those kid's minds are scrambled as eggs.

Had she been a normal girl, he might have succeeded. But Stella was raised to kill. If a group of big, burly soldiers hadn't overheard his screams of agony, she probably would have dismembered him with her bare hands. She would have found a way to do it. The soldiers were able to restrain her long enough for a doctor to arrive and giver her a sedative but they were too late to stop her from gouging out an eye.

The soulless bastard in question immediately demanded that she be "put down," as if she wasn't human. I thought the powers that be would agree and dispose of her, but I was pleasantly surprised. Douchevsky made him disappear, and I don't think he received a transfer, if you catch my drift. It looks like there is some good in the universe, however slight.

And then there's Sting. He's the most stable of the tikes. In fact, he's downright cold. He reminds me of Shani in a way, minus the overwhelming self-pity. They sucked the life out of him. I can't do much for him, but I try. I talk to him every time I see him and ask him how he's doing. It's all I can do to let him know that someone gives a damn whether he lives or dies.

It's obvious those Alliance goons don't care. They've been growing weapons for years. I just recently found out about the Combat Coordinator project, the single greatest contradiction in the Earth Sphere. The Blue Cosmos-backed Earth Alliance is creating a wave of Coordinators bred to fight and conditioned not to harm Naturals.

The three of us have been designated "Biological CPUs." Douche bag and his cohorts think of us as parts of our suits that just happen to eat, sleep, piss, and screw. As soon as we die, the kids will be cycled into rotation. Of that I have no doubt.

Judging from what little people are willing to tell me, the Calamity, Raider, and Forbidden were meant for these kids. ZAFT surprised everyone with how quickly and suddenly they gained an upper hand, which threw off the Alliance's whole schedule. They weren't ready for combat (still a few bugs to work out) when the war started, so the Alliance went to Plan B: Us.

And that's okay with me. It's better that the three of us risk our lives out here than those kids. They're only a few years younger than us, but when you actually meet them, you'll see why I call them "kids." They haven't really lived a single day in their lives. Their entire existence has consisted of tutorials on how best to kill another human being and a regimen of brainwashing. If the three of us screw-ups have what it takes to help end this war, then I'll do it. If there aren't any Coordinators left for the kids to fight, the Alliance just might let them live for once.

I know I sound terribly hackneyed and sanctimonious, but bear with me. Everything in my life that was ever worth a damn is because of kids. I killed my parents for my sister. I took the offer for myself (because, really, I'm still a kid in a lot of ways). I'm willing to put up with that godforsaken gamma glipheptin for those three.

Douche bag is really starting to rub off on me. I'm rationalizing genocide. I think I know a proverb that sums up my situation: The road to hell is paved with good intentions.


End file.
